


Of Things Left Out

by Thimblerig



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Literary Agent Hypothesis, Missing Scene, Romantic Friendship, Slash if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-14 10:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15387156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield has strong feelings about the comma. Bilbo Baggins has strong feelings about handkerchiefs. Both of them have thoughts on writing, and birthday parties...





	Of Things Left Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



_"We are met to discuss our plans, our ways, means, policy and devices. We shall soon before break of day start on our long journey, a journey from which some of us, or perhaps all of us (except our friend and counsellor, the ingenious wizard Gandalf) may never return. It is a solemn moment. Our object is, I take it, well known to us all."_

_This was Thorin’s style. He was an important dwarf. If he had been allowed, he would probably have gone on like this until he was out of breath, without telling any one there anything that was not known already…_

Thorin lowered the little leather-bound journal, only slightly water-worn, and raised one black, bushy eyebrow.

“I regret nothing,” said Bilbo, or rather, “I regred nudding.” Then he sneezed muckily into a large, white square of linen and huddled further under the knitted blanket. His basket chair creaked as he rocked fretfully on the porch of the house they had been lent by the Master of Laketown, and water lapped idly at the pilings as chimney smoke and low mist mixed in the crisp autumn air and the bustle of preparations sounded from inside.

Without comment, Thorin retrieved a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and placed it gently on the little Burglar's lap. Bilbo looked at him gratefully, cheeks flushed and hair sweat-damp with his lingering cold. Then he tilted his nose in the air and said loftily (if muckily), “A responsible chronicler strives to convey the _character_ of his subjects.”

Thorin _harrumphed._ Then he said, very sternly, “a _proper_ dwarf would not countenance such irregular comma usage.”

Bilbo gurgled slightly. Then, “Creative license,” he scoffed, waving a small brown hand, “to make the thing _flow._ I'm sure you'll thank me for it later.” Then he chuckled, eyes sliding to the side. “And for what I leave _out..._ ”

Thorin _harrumphed_ again. He was not old, for a dwarf, but his _harrumphs_ were resonant, born of well-practiced lungs and long experience at being an Uncle. “Write me truly,” he said simply, “if you must write me at all.”

“I'm keeping the silly bits,” Bilbo defended.

“If you must. But write me truly at the heart of it.”

Bilbo sneezed again, unhappily. Muffled through the doors of the house, they heard a clatter of articulated doom and Bombur’s rich voice in joyful laughter, followed by Fili and Kili’s youthful peals. Bilbo chuckled, then his eyes strayed over the line of stilt-legged houses to where the Lonely Mountain stood wreathed in its own shawl of evening mist.

“Courage, Little Burglar,” Thorin said, laying his broad hand on the hobbit’s blanket-swathed shoulder, “there is a hill of gold at the end of this.”

“One never asks if a hobbit has _courage,”_ Bilbo chided. “We're all of us terrible cowards.” He sighed as Thorin squeezed his shoulder. “I have a cold on my birthday,” he said sadly, “and a hill of gold won't amend _that…”_ But he leaned towards the warmth of his leader, and his eyes drooped. He nudged Thorin’s arm, and dropped a tiny bundle wrapped in a (clean) handkerchief into the dwarf’s lap. “For my birthday,” he said sleepily. “It is our custom to give gifts.”

It was just a pebble, in the wrapping of cloth, smooth and pearly - near iridescent - polished smooth from long tumbling in the river. Thorin cradled its cool weight in the nest of his hand and _harrumphed_ once more, with even more dignity than before. “It is a princely gift,” he told the hobbit kindly.

“Oh, pooh,” said Bilbo, but he smiled as he said it.

 _“As_ it is your birthday, _”_ Thorin added, “you, Burglar Bilbo, or, as it may be preferred, Expert Treasure-Hunter Bilbo, travelling as you are in the employ, supervision, and for the reciprocated benefit of Thorin & Co. Accredited Adventuring Party - which under popularly accepted custom follows the practices and ways of the voting majority of its members, that is, dwarfs, Khazâd, the children of Mahal - are due the traditional rites accorded to one who has once more successfully passed a cycle of days under the Moon and the Sun or Roof of Stone.”

Bilbo’s eyes opened wide, and he whimpered under his blanket.

“It is an important day,” Thorin said solemnly. “A day of celebration, of reflection, of gathering to honour one who grows ever in wisdom, and beard length, and _girth…”_ And he raised up the little harp resting against his knee. It was not his own golden harp, rescued from the burning of the Lonely Mountain in a cousin's arms and nursed and cosseted on their journey all the way until Eagles plucked his company from burning fir trees. It was a sweet little thing even so, carved of fragrant wood and burnished to an amber sheen. Thorin’s hands caressed the curves of its back and belly and sounded a soft scale to check the tuning. Then he struck a great chord from its metal strings.

 _Praise Bilbo!_ he intoned, _praise Bilbo with great praise!_

The little hobbit choked, then hunched over in a fit of wet coughing. The dwarf pounded him on the back helpfully then began again, improvising in the ancient _kibilgilim_ style:

 _Praise Bilbo! Praise him with great praise!_  
_Firework lover, wizard friend, a master of the second breakfast,_  
_Ask him for a seedcake, lo! a guest-friend never shall be wanting  
_ _Ale, wine, a pork pie, all these things are given for the asking -_

“Hey,” said Bilbo feebly.

 _Silent-footed, spider-foe, clever-tongued his riddling ever  
_ _May his beard reach to his navel - this a blessing of our custom -_

“I can't put this into my book,” Bilbo protested, “they'll never believe me!”

 _“_ Then leave it out if you must,” said Thorin, “but remember it.”

A muffled shout came from inside their borrowed house, from Kili, impetuous with youth: _“Hoy! Uncle and Most Gracious Leader! The dinner is nearly ready!”_

Once more, one final time, Thorin _harrumphed,_ his eyes flashing.

Bilbo touched his arm lightly. “I don't mind if you finish the song,” he said, hesitant. “There's a little time left.”

Thorin bent again to the harp.

**Author's Note:**

> The initial quote comes from Chapter 1 of _The Hobbit,_ “An Unexpected Party”. I read some meta a while back, pointing out that since all of the book was notionally written by Bilbo, every time book!Thorin expounds, and expounds, and expounds, Bilbo is being a bit savage, in the writing .
> 
> And I thought it would be fun to lean into that...


End file.
